O*  Mansion 


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IIQtnty  **xi  f&fr* 


X  MjUuc. 


yjq:.  jjia-=i    i    avAH    won    Tua " 


BUT     HOW     HAVE     I     FAILED     SO     WRETCHEDLY?" 

(See  paee  42 J 


THE  MANSION 


BY 


Henry  van  Dyke 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 

ELIZABETH   SH1PPEN  GREEN 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON    .  M  •  C  •  M  •  X  •  I 


COPYRIGHT.    19IO.    1911.    BY    HARPER    ft   BROTHERS 

PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 

PUBLISHED    OCTOBER.    1911 


Illustrations 

"  BUT   HOW   HAVE   I   FAILED   SO  WRETCHEDLY  ?"      .       .  Frontispiece 

"RELIGION    IS   NOT    A  MATTER  OF  SENTIMENT"      .       .  Page        17 
AMONG   THE    ROUNDED    HILLOCKS  OF  AERIAL   GREEN 

AND    GOLD           Facing  p.    28 

"WELCOME!     WILL    YOU    COME    WITH    US?"       .       .       .  Page        29 

THAT    FREE    AIR    OF    PERFECT    PEACE "           31 

"GOD    GIVE    US    A    GOOD    CHRISTMAS    TOGETHER"       .  "           45 


The  Mansion 


The  Mansion 


'HERE  was  an  air  of  calm  and 
reserved    opulence    about    the 
Weightman  mansion  that  spoke 
not  of  money  squandered,  but 
of    wealth    prudently    applied. 
Standing  on   a  corner  of  the  Avenue   no 
longer  fashionable  for  residence,  it  looked 
upon  the  swelling  tide  of  business  with  an 
expression  of  complacency    and  half  -  dis- 
dain. 

The  house  was  not  beautiful.  There 
was  nothing  in  its  straight  front  of  chocolate- 
colored  stone,  its  heavy  cornices,  its  broad, 
staring  windows  of  plate  glass,  its  carved  and 
bronze-bedecked  mahogany  doors  at  the  top  of 


THE    MANSION 

the  wide  stoop,  to  charm  the  eye  or  fascinate 
the  imagination.  But  it  was  eminently  re- 
spectable, and  in  its  way  imposing.  It  seemed 
to  say  that  the  glittering  shops  of  the  jewelers, 
the  milliners,  the  confectioners,  the  florists,  the 
picture-dealers,  the  furriers,  the  makers  of  rare 
and  costly  antiquities,  retail  traders  in  luxuries 
of  life,  were  beneath  the  notice  of  a  house  that 
had  its  foundations  in  the  high  finance,  and  was 
built  literally  and  figuratively  in  the  shadow  of 
St.  Petronius'  Church. 

At  the  same  time  there  was  something  self- 
pleased  and  congratulatory  in  the  way  in  which 
the  mansion  held  its  own  amid  the  changing 
neighborhood.  It  almost  seemed  to  be  lifted 
up  a  little,  among  the  tall  buildings  near  at 
hand,  as  if  it  felt  the  rising  value  of  the  land  on 
which  it  stood. 

John  Weightman  was  like  the  house  into 
which  he  had  built  himself  thirty  years  ago  and 
in  which  his  ideals  and  ambitions  were  in- 
crusted.  He  was  a  self-made  man.  But  in 
making  himself  he  had  chosen  a  highly  es- 
teemed pattern  and  worked  according  to  the 
approved  rules.  There  was  nothing  irregular, 
questionable,  flamboyant  about  him.  He  was 
solid,  correct,  and  justly  successful. 


THE    MANSION 

His  minor  tastes,  of  course,  had  been  care- 
fully kept  up  to  date.  At  the  proper  time, 
pictures  by  the  Barbizon  masters,  old  English 
plate  and  portraits,  bronzes  by  Barye  and 
marbles  by  Rodin,  Persian  carpets  and  Chinese 
porcelains,  had  been  introduced  to  the  mansion. 
It  contained  a  Louis  Quinze  reception-room,  an 
Empire  drawing-room,  a  Jacobean  dining- 
room,  and  various  apartments  dimly  reminis- 
cent of  the  styles  of  furniture  affected  by  de- 
ceased monarchs.  That  the  hallways  were  too 
short  for  the  historic  perspective  did  not  make 
much  difference.  American  decorative  art  is 
capable  de  tout,  it  absorbs  all  periods.  Of  each 
period  Mr.  Weigh tman  wished  to  have  something 
of  the  best.  He  understood  its  value,  present  as 
a  certificate,  and  prospective  as  an  investment. 

It  was  only  in  the  architecture  of  his  town 
house  that  he  remained  conservative,  immov- 
able, one  might  almost  say  Early-Victorian- 
Christian.  His  country  house  at  Dulwich-on-the- 
Sound  was  a  palace  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 
But  in  town  he  adhered  to  an  architecture 
which  had  moral  associations,  the  Nineteenth- 
Century- Brownstone  epoch.  It  was  a  symbol 
of  his  social  position,  his  religious  doctrine,  and 
even,  in  a  way,  of  his  business  creed. 

3 


THE    MANSION 

"A  man  of  fixed  principles,"  he  would  say, 
"should  express  them  in  the  looks  of  his  house. 
New  York  changes  its  domestic  architecture  too 
rapidly.  It  is  like  divorce.  It  is  not  dignified. 
I  don't  like  it.  Extravagance  and  fickleness 
are  advertised  in  most  of  these  new  houses. 
I  wish  to  be  known  for  different  qualities. 
Dignity  and  prudence  are  the  things  that  people 
trust.  Every  one  knows  that  I  can  afford  to 
live  in  the  house  that  suits  me.  It  is  a  guaran- 
tee to  the  public.  It  inspires  confidence.  It 
helps  my  influence.  There  is  a  text  in  the 
Bible  about  'a  house  that  hath  foundations. ' 
That  is  the  proper  kind  of  a  mansion  for  a  solid 
man. " 

Harold  Weightman  had  often  listened  to  his 
father  discoursing  in  this  fashion  on  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  life,  and  always  with  a 
divided  mind.  He  admired  immensely  his 
father's  talents  and  the  single-minded  energy 
with  which  he  improved  them.  But  in  the 
paternal  philosophy  there  was  something  that 
disquieted  and  oppressed  the  young  man,  and 
made  him  gasp  inwardly  for  fresh  air  and  free 
action. 

At  times,  during  his  college  course  and  his 
years  at  the  law  school,  he  had  yielded  to  this 

4 


THE    MANSION 

impulse  and  broken  away — now  toward  extrav- 
agance and  dissipation,  and  then,  when  the 
reaction  came,  toward  a  romantic  devotion  to 
work  among  the  poor.  He  had  felt  his  father's 
disapproval  for  both  of  these  forms  of  impru- 
dence; but  it  was  never  expressed  in  a  harsh 
or  violent  way,  always  with  a  certain  tolerant 
patience,  such  as  one  might  show  for  the  mis- 
takes and  vagaries  of  the  very  young.  John 
Weightman  was  not  hasty,  impulsive,  incon- 
siderate, even  toward  his  own  children.  With 
them,  as  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  he  felt  that 
he  had  a  reputation  to  maintain,  a  theory  to 
vindicate.  He  could  afford  to  give  them  time 
to  see  that  he  was  absolutely  right. 

One  of  his  favorite  Scripture  quotations  was, 
"Wait  on  the  Lord."  He  had  applied  it  to 
real  estate  and  to  people,  with  profitable  results. 

But  to  human  persons  the  sensation  of  being 
waited  for  is  not  always  agreeable.  Some- 
times, especially  with  the  young,  it  produces  a 
vague  restlessness,  a  dumb  resentment,  which 
is  increased  by  the  fact  that  one  can  hardly 
explain  or  justify  it.  Of  this  John  Weightman 
was  not  conscious.  It  lay  beyond  his  horizon. 
He  did  not  take  it  into  account  in  the  plan  of 
life  which  he  had  made  for  himself  and  for  his 

5 


THE    MANSION 

family  as  the  sharers  and  inheritors  of  his  suc- 
cess. 

"  Father  plays  us,  "  said  Harold,  in  a  moment 
of  irritation,  to  his  mother,  "like  pieces  in  a 
game  of  chess. " 

"  My  dear,  "  said  that  lady,  whose  faith  in  her 
husband  was  religious,  "  you  ought  not  to  speak 
so  impatiently.  At  least  he  wins  the  game.  He 
is  one  of  the  most  respected  men  in  New  York. 
And  he  is  very  generous,  too.  " 

"  I  wish  he  would  be  more  generous  in  letting 
us  be  ourselves,"  said  the  young  man.  "He 
always  has  something  in  view  for  us  and  ex- 
pects to  move  us  up  to  it.  " 

"But  isn't  it  always  for  our  benefit?"  re- 
plied his  mother.  "Look  what  a  position  we 
have.  No  one  can  say  there  is  any  taint  on  our 
money.  There  are  no  rumors  about  your 
father.  He  has  kept  the  laws  of  God  and  of 
man.     He  has  never  made  any  mistakes.  " 

Harold  got  up  from  his  chair  and  poked  the 
fire.  Then  he  came  back  to  the  ample,  well- 
gowned,  firm-looking  lady,  and  sat  beside  her 
on  the  sofa.  He  took  her  hand  gently  and 
looked  at  the  two  rings — a  thin  band  of  yellow 
gold,  and  a  small  solitaire  diamond — which 
kept  their  place  on  her  third  finger  in  modest 

6 


THE    MANSION 

dignity,  as  if  not  ashamed,  but  rather  justified, 
by  the  splendor  of  the  emerald  which  glittered 
beside  them. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "you  have  a  wonderful 
hand.  And  father  made  no  mistake  when  he 
won  you.  But  are  you  sure  he  has  always  been 
so  inerrant  ?" 

"Harold,"  she  exclaimed,  a  little  stiffly, 
"what  do  you  mean?  His  life  is  an  open 
book." 

"  Oh,  "  he  answered,  "  I  don't  mean  anything 
bad,  mother  dear.  I  know  the  governor's  life 
is  an  open  book — a  ledger,  if  you  like,  kept 
in  the  best  bookkeeping  hand,  and  always 
ready  for  inspection — every  page  correct,  and 
showing  a  handsome  balance.  But  isn't  it  a 
mistake  not  to  allow  us  to  make  our  own  mis- 
takes, to  learn  for  ourselves,  to  live  our  own 
lives  ?  Must  we  be  always  working  for  'the 
balance,'  in  one  thing  or  another?  I  want 
to  be  myself — to  get  outside  of  this  everlasting, 
profitable  'plan ' — to  let  myself  go,  and  lose 
myself  for  a  while  at  least — to  do  the  things 
that  I  want  to  do,  just  because  I  want  to  do 
them. " 

"My  boy,  "  said  his  mother,  anxiously,  "you 
are  not  going  to  do  anything  wrong  or  foolish  ? 

7 


THE    MANSION 

You  know  the  falsehood  of  that  old  proverb 
about  wild  oats. " 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "  Yes, 
mother,  "  he  answered,  "  I  know  it  well  enough. 
But  in  California,  you  know,  the  wild  oats  are 
one  of  the  most  valuable  crops.  They  grow  all 
over  the  hillsides  and  keep  the  cattle  and  the 
horses  alive.  But  that  wasn't  what  I  meant — 
to  sow  wild  oats.  Say  to  pick  wild  flowers,  if 
you  like,  or  even  to  chase  wild  geese — to  do 
something  that  seems  good  to  me  just  for  its 
own  sake,  not  for  the  sake  of  wages  of  one  kind 
or  another.  I  feel  like  a  hired  man,  in  the  serv- 
ice of  this  magnificent  mansion — say  in  training 
for  father's  place  as  majordomo.  I'd  like  to 
get  out  some  way,  to  feel  free — perhaps  to  do 
something  for  others. " 

The  young  man's  voice  hesitated  a  little. 
"Yes,  it  sounds  like  cant,  I  know,  but  some- 
times I  feel  as  if  I'd  like  to  do  some  good  in  the 
world,  if  father  only  wouldn't  insist  upon  God's 
putting  it  into  the  ledger.  " 

His  mother  moved  uneasily,  and  a  slight  look 
of  bewilderment  came  into  her  face. 

"Isn't  that  almost  irreverent?"  she  asked. 
"  Surely  the  righteous  must  have  their  reward. 
And  your  father  is  good.     See  how  much  he 

8 


THE    MANSION 

gives  to  all  the  established  charities,  how  many 
things  he  has  founded.  He's  always  thinking 
of  others,  and  planning  for  them.  And  surely, 
for  us,  he  does  everything.  How  well  he  has 
planned  this  trip  to  Europe  for  me  and  the  girls 
— the  court-presentation  at  Berlin,  the  season 
on  the  Riviera,  the  visits  in  England  with  the 
Plumptons  and  the  Halverstones.  He  says 
Lord  Halverstone  has  the  finest  old  house  in 
Sussex,  pure  Elizabethan,  and  all  the  old  cus- 
toms are  kept  up,  too — family  prayers  every 
morning  for  all  the  domestics.  By-the-way, 
you  know  his  son  Bertie,  I  believe.  " 

Harold  smiled  a  little  to  himself  as  he  an- 
swered: 'Yes,  I  fished  at  Catalina  Island  last 
June  with  the  Honorable  Ethelbert ;  he's  rather 
a  decent  chap,  in  spite  of  his  ingrowing  mind. 
But  you  ?— -mother,  you  are  simply  magnifi- 
cent! You  are  father's  masterpiece."  The 
young  man  leaned  over  to  kiss  her,  and  went  up 
to  the  Riding  Club  for  his  afternoon  canter  in 
the  Park. 

So  it  came  to  pass,  early  in  December,  that 
Mrs.  Weightman  and  her  two  daughters  sailed 
for  Europe,  on  their  serious  pleasure  trip,  even 
as  it  had  been  written  in  the  book  of  Provi- 
dence; and  John  Weightman,  who  had  made  the 

2  9 


THE    MANSION 

entry,  was  left  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  winter  with 
his  son  and  heir  in  the  brownstone  mansion. 

They  were  comfortable  enough.  The  ma- 
chinery of  the  massive  establishment  ran  as 
smoothly  as  a  great  electric  dynamo.  They 
were  busy  enough,  too.  John  Weightman's 
plans  and  enterprises  were  complicated,  though 
his  principle  of  action  was  always  simple — to 
get  good  value  for  every  expenditure  and  effort. 
The  banking-house  of  which  he  was  the  chief, 
the  brain,  the  will,  the  absolutely  controlling 
hand,  was  so  admirably  organized  that  the  de- 
tails of  its  direction  took  but  little  time.  But 
the  scores  of  other  interests  that  radiated  from 
it  and  were  dependent  upon  it — or  perhaps  it 
would  be  more  accurate  to  say  that  contrib- 
uted to  its  solidity  and  success  —  the  many 
investments,  industrial,  political,  benevolent, 
reformatory,  ecclesiastical,  that  had  made  the 
name  of  Weightman  well  known  and  potent  in 
city,  church,  and  state,  demanded  much  atten- 
tion and  careful  steering,  in  order  that  each 
might  produce  the  desired  result.  There  were 
board  meetings  of  corporations  and  hospitals, 
conferences  in  Wall  Street  and  at  Albany,  con- 
sultations and  committee  meetings  in  the 
brownstone  mansion. 

IO 


THE    MANSION 

For  a  share  in  all  this  business  and  its  ad- 
juncts John  Weightman  had  his  son  in  training 
in  one  of  the  famous  law  firms  of  the  city ;  for 
he  held  that  banking  itself  is  a  simple  affair,  the 
only  real  difficulties  of  finance  are  on  its  legal 
side.  Meantime  he  wished  the  young  man  to 
meet  and  know  the  men  with  whom  he  would 
have  to  deal  when  he  became  a  partner  in  the 
house.  So  a  couple  of  dinners  were  given  in 
the  mansion  during  December,  after  which  the 
father  called  the  son's  attention  to  the  fact  that 
over  a  hundred  million  dollars  had  sat  around 
the  board. 

But  on  Christmas  Eve  father  and  son  were 
dining  together  without  guests,  and  their  talk 
across  the  broad  table,  glittering  with  silver 
and  cut  glass,  and  softly  lit  by  shaded  candles, 
was  intimate,  though  a  little  slow  at  times. 
The  elder  man  was  in  rather  a  rare  mood,  more 
expansive  and  confidential  than  usual;  and, 
when  the  coffee  was  brought  in  and  they  were 
left  alone,  he  talked  more  freely  of  his  personal 
plans  and  hopes  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 

"  I  feel  very  grateful  to-night, "  said  he,  at 
last ;  "it  must  be  something  in  the  air  of  Christ- 
mas that  gives  me  this  feeling  of  thankfulness 
for  the  many  divine  mercies  that  have  been 


ii 


THE    MANSION 

bestowed  upon  me.  All  the  principles  by 
which  I  have  tried  to  guide  my  life  have  been 
justified.  I  have  never  made  the  value  of  this 
salted  almond  by  anything  that  the  courts 
would  not  uphold,  at  least  in  the  long  run,  and 
yet — or  wouldn't  it  be  truer  to  say  and  there- 
fore?— my  affairs  have  been  wonderfully  pros- 
pered. There's  a  great  deal  in  that  text  'Hon- 
esty is  the  best' — but  no,  that's  not  from  the 
Bible,  after  all,  is  it  ?  Wait  a  moment ;  there  is 
something  of  that  kind,  I  know.  " 

"May  I  light  a  cigar,  father,"  said  Harold, 
turning  away  to  hide  a  smile,  "while  you  are 
remembering  the  text  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly, "  answered  the  elder  man, 
rather  shortly;  "you  know  I  don't  dislike  the 
smell.  But  it  is  a  wasteful,  useless  habit,  and 
therefore  I  have  never  practised  it.  Nothing 
useless  is  worth  while,  that's  my  motto — noth- 
ing that  does  not  bring  the  reward.  Oh,  now  I 
recall  the  text,  '  Verily  I  say  unto  you  they 
have  their  reward. '  I  shall  ask  Doctor  Snod- 
grass  to  preach  a  sermon  on  that  verse  some 
day. " 

"  Using  you  as  an  illustration  ?" 

"  Well,  not  exactly  that;  but  I  could  give  him 
some  good  material  from  my  own  experience  to 

12 


THE    MANSION 

prove  the  truth  of  Scripture.  I  can  honestly 
say  that  there  is  not  one  of  my  charities  that 
has  not  brought  me  in  a  good  return,  either  in 
the  increase  of  influence,  the  building-up  of 
credit,  or  the  association  with  substantial  peo- 
ple. Of  course  you  have  to  be  careful  how  you 
give,  in  order  to  secure  the  best  results — no 
indiscriminate  giving — no  pennies  in  beggars' 
hats !  It  has  been  one  of  my  principles  always 
to  use  the  same  kind  of  judgment  in  charities 
that  I  use  in  my  other  affairs,  and  they  have  not 
disappointed  me. " 

"  Even  the  check  that  you  put  in  the  plate 
when  you  take  the  offertory  up  the  aisle  on 
Sunday  morning?" 

"Certainly;  though  there  the  influence  is 
less  direct ;  and  I  must  confess  that  I  have  my 
doubts  in  regard  to  the  collection  for  Foreign 
Missions.  That  always  seems  to  me  romantic 
and  wasteful.  You  never  hear  from  it  in  any 
definite  way.  They  say  the  missionaries  have 
done  a  good  deal  to  open  the  way  for  trade; 
perhaps — but  they  have  also  gotten  us  into 
commercial  and  political  difficulties.  Yet  I 
give  to  them — a  little — it  is  a  matter  of  con- 
science with  me  to  identify  myself  with  all  the 
enterprises  of  the  Church ;   it  is  the  mainstay  of 

13 


THE    MANSION 

social  order  and  a  prosperous  civilization.  But 
the  best  forms  of  benevolence  are  the  well- 
established,  organized  ones  here  at  home,  where 
people  can  see  them  and  know  what  they  are 
doing. " 

"  You  mean  the  ones  that  have  a  local  habi- 
tation and  a  name. " 

"Yes;  they  offer  by  far  the  safest  return, 
though  of  course  there  is  something  gained  by 
contributing  to  general  funds.  A  public  man 
can't  afford  to  be  without  public  spirit.  But 
on  the  whole  I  prefer  a  building,  or  an  endow- 
ment. There  is  a  mutual  advantage  to  a  good 
name  and  a  good  institution  in  their  connection 
in  the  public  mind.  It  helps  them  both.'  Re- 
member that,  my  boy.  Of  course  at  the  be- 
ginning you  will  have  to  practise  it  in  a  small 
way;  later,  you  will  have  larger  opportunities. 
But  try  to  put  your  gifts  where  they  can  be 
identified  and  do  good  all  around.  You'll  see 
the  wisdom  of  it  in  the  long  run. ' ' 

"I  can  see  it  already,  sir,  and  the  way  you 
describe  it  looks  amazingly  wise  and  prudent. 
In  other  words,  we  must  cast  our  bread  on  the 
waters  in  large  loaves,  carried  by  sound  ships 
marked  with  the  owner's  name,  so  that  the 
return  freight  will  be  sure  to  come  back  to  us.  " 

14 


THE    MANSION 

The  father  laughed,  but  his  eyes  were  frown- 
ing a  little  as  if  he  suspected  something  irreve- 
rent under  the  respectful  reply. 

"You  put  it  humorously,  but  there's  sense 
in  what  you  say.  Why  not  ?  God  rules  the 
sea;  but  He  expects  us  to  follow  the  laws  of 
navigation  and  commerce.  Why  not  take  good 
care  of  your  bread,  even  when  you  give  it 
away?" 

"It's  not  for  me  to  say  why  not — and  yet  I 
can  think  of  cases — ' '  The  young  man  hesitated 
for  a  moment.  His  half-finished  cigar  had  gone 
out.  He  rose  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire,  in 
front  of  which  he  remained  standing — a  slender, 
eager,  restless  young  figure,  with  a  touch  of 
hunger  in  the  fine  face,  strangely  like  and  unlike 
the  father,  at  whom  he  looked  with  half-wistful 
curiosity. 

"The  fact  is,  sir,"  he  continued,  "there  is 
such  a  case  in  my  mind  now,  and  it  is  a  good 
deal  on  my  heart,  too.  So  I  thought  of  speak- 
ing to  you  about  it  to-night.  You  remember 
Tom  Rollins,  the  Junior  who  was  so  good  to  me 
when  I  entered  college?" 

The  father  nodded.  He  remembered  very 
well  indeed  the  annoying  incidents  of  his  son's 
first  escapade,  and  how  Rollins  had  stood  by 

15 


THE    MANSION 

him  and  helped  to  avoid  a  public  disgrace,  and 
how  a  close  friendship  had  grown  between  the 
two  boys,  so  different  in  their  fortunes. 

"  Yes,  "  he  said,  "  I  remember  him.  He  was 
a  promising  young  man.  Has  he  succeeded  ?" 
"  Not  exactly — that  is,  not  yet.  His  busi- 
ness has  been  going  rather  badly.  He  has  a 
wife  and  little  baby,  you  know.  And  now  he 
has  broken  down, — something  wrong  with  his 
lungs.  The  doctor  says  his  only  chance  is  a 
year  or  eighteen  months  in  Colorado.  I  wish 
we  could  help  him. " 

"  How  much  would  it  cost  ?" 
"  Three  or  four  thousand  perhaps,  as  a  loan.  " 
"Does  the  doctor  say  he  will  get  well ?" 
"A  fighting  chance — the  doctor  says.  " 
The  face  of  the  older  man  changed  subtly. 
Not  a  line  was  altered,  but  it  seemed  to  have  a 
different  substance,  as  if  it  were  carved  out  of 
some  firm,  imperishable  stuff. 

'.'A  fighting  chance,  "  he  said,  "may  do  for  a 
speculation,  but  it  is  not  a  good  investment. 
You  owe  something  to  young  Rollins.  Your 
grateful  feeling  does  you  credit.  But  don't 
overwork  it.  Send  him  three  or  four  hundred, 
if  you  like.  You'll  never  hear  from  it  again, 
except  in  the  letter  of  thanks.     But  for  Hea- 

16 


r 


"  Religion  is  not  a  matter  of  sentiment 


ven's  sake  don't  be  sentimental.  Religion  is 
not  a  matter  of  sentiment;  it's  a  matter  of 
principle. " 

The  face  of  the  younger  man  changed  now. 
But  instead  of  becoming  fixed  and  graven,  it 
seemed  to  melt  into  life  by  the  heat  of  an  in- 
ward fire.  His  nostrils  quivered  with  quick 
breath,  his  lips  were  curled. 

"  Principle!"  he  said,     "  You  mean  principal 

— and  interest  too.     Well,  sir,  you  know  best 

whether  that  is  religion  or  not.     But  if  it  is, 

count  me  out,  please.     Tom  saved  me  from 

3  17 


THE    MANSION 

going  to  the  devil,  six  years  ago;  and  I'll  be 
damned  if  I  don't  help  him  to  the  best  of  my 
ability  now. " 

John  Weightman  looked  at  his  son  steadily. 
"  Harold,  "  he  said  at  last,  "  you  know  I  dislike 
violent  language,  and  it  never  has  any  influence 
with  me.  If  I  could  honestly  approve  of  this 
proposition  of  yours,  I'd  let  you  have  the 
money;  but  I  can't;  it's  extravagant  and  use- 
less. But  you  have  your  Christmas  check  for  a 
thousand  dollars  coming  to  you  to-morrow. 
You  can  use  it  as  you  please.  I  never  interfere 
with  your  private  affairs.  " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Harold.  "Thank  you 
very  much !  But  there's  another  private  affair. 
I  want  to  get  away  from  this  life,  this  town, 
this  house.  It  stifles  me.  You  refused  last 
summer  when  I  asked  you  to  let  me  go  up  to 
Grenf ell's  Mission  on  the  Labrador.  I  could  go 
now,  at  least  as  far  as  the  Newfoundland  Sta- 
tion.    Have  you  changed  your  mind?" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  think  it  is  an  exceedingly 
foolish  enterprise.  It  would  interrupt  the 
career  that  I  have  marked  out  for  you.  " 

"Well,  then,  here's  a  cheaper  proposition. 
Algy  Vanderhoof  wants  me  to  join  him  on 
his  yacht  with — well,  with  a  little  party — to 


THE    MANSION 

cruise  in  the  West  Indies.  Would  you  prefer 
that?" 

"  Certainly  not!  The  Vanderhoof  set  is  wild 
and  godless — I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  keeping 
company  with  fools  who  walk  in  the  broad  and 
easy  way  that  leads  to  perdition.  " 

"It  is  rather  a  hard  choice, "  said  the  young 
man,  with  a  short  laugh,  turning  toward  the 
door.  "According  to  you  there's  very  little 
difference — a  fool's  paradise  or  a  fool's  hell! 
Well,  it's  one  or  the  other  for  me,  and  I'll  toss 
up  for  it  to-night:  heads,  I  lose;  tails,  the  devil 
wins.  Anyway,  I'm  sick  of  this,  and  I'm  out  of 
it." 

"  Harold,  "  said  the  older  man  (and  there  was 
a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice),  "don't  let  us 
quarrel  on  Christmas  Eve.  All  I  want  is  to 
persuade  you  to  think  seriously  of  the  duties 
and  responsibilities  to  which  God  has  called 
you — don't  speak  lightly  of  heaven  and  hell — 
remember,  there  is  another  life.  " 

The  young  man  came  back  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  father's  shoulder. 

"  Father,  "  he  said,  "  I  want  to  remember  it. 
I  try  to  believe  in  it.  But  somehow  or  other, 
in  this  house,  it  all  seems  unreal  to  me.  No 
doubt  all  you  say  is  perfectly  right  and  wise. 

19 


THE    MANSION 

I  don't  venture  to  argue  against  it,  but  I  can't 
feel  it — that's  all.  If  I'm  to  have  a  soul,  either 
to  lose  or  to  save,  I  must  really  live.  Just  now 
neither  the  present  nor  the  future  means  any- 
thing to  me.  But  surely  we  won't  quarrel. 
I'm  very  grateful  to  you,  and  we'll  part 
friends.     Good-night,  sir. " 

The  father  held  out  his  hand  in  silence.  The 
heavy  portiere  dropped  noiselessly  behind  the 
son,  and  he  went  up  the  wide,  curving  stairway 
to  his  own  room. 

Meantime  John  Weightman  sat  in  his  carved 
chair  in  the  Jacobean  dining-room.  He  felt 
strangely  old  and  dull.  The  portraits  of  beau- 
tiful women  by  Lawrence  and  Reynolds  and 
Raeburn,  which  had  often  seemed  like  real 
company  to  him,  looked  remote  and  uninterest- 
ing. He  fancied  something  cold  and  almost 
unfriendly  in  their  expression,  as  if  they  were 
staring  through  him  or  beyond  him.  They 
cared  nothing  for  his  principles,  his  hopes,  his 
disappointments,  his  successes;  they  belonged 
to  another  world,  in  which  he  had  no  place.  At 
this  he  felt  a  vague  resentment,  a  sense  of 
discomfort  that  he  could  not  have  defined 
or  explained.  He  was  used  to  being  con- 
sidered,   respected,    appreciated    at    his    full 

20 


THE    MANSION 

value  in  every  region,  even  in  that  of  his  own 
dreams. 

Presently  he  rang  for  the  butler,  telling  him 
to  close  the  house  and  not  to  sit  up,  and 
walked  with  lagging  steps  into  the  long  library, 
where  the  shaded  lamps  were  burning.  His  eye 
fell  upon  the  low  shelves  full  of  costly  books, 
but  he  had  no  desire  to  open  them.  Even  the 
carefully  chosen  pictures  that  hung  above 
them  seemed  to  have  lost  their  attraction.  He 
paused  for  a  moment  before  an  idyll  of  Corot — 
a  dance  of  nymphs  around  some  forgotten  altar 
in  a  vaporous  glade — and  looked  at  it  curiously. 
There  was  something  rapturous  and  serene 
about  the  picture,  a  breath  of  spring-time  in 
the  misty  trees,  a  harmony  of  joy  in  the  dan- 
cing figures,  that  wakened  in  him  a  feeling  of 
half-pleasure  and  half-envy.  It  represented 
something  that  he  had  never  known  in  his 
calculated,  orderly  life.  He  was  dimly  mis- 
trustful of  it. 

"It  is  certainly  very  beautiful,  "  he  thought, 
"  but  it  is  distinctly  pagan ;  that  altar  is  built  to 
some  heathen  god.  It  does  not  fit  into  the 
scheme  of  a  Christian  life.  I  doubt  whether  it 
is  consistent  with  the  tone  of  my  house.  I  will 
sell  it  this  winter.     It  will  bring  three  or  four 

21 


THE    MANSION 

times  what  I  paid  for  it.  That  was  a  good 
purchase,  a  very  good  bargain.  " 

He  dropped  into  the  revolving  chair  before 
his  big  library  table.  It  was  covered  with 
pamphlets,  and  reports  of  the  various  enter- 
prises in  which  he  was  interested.  There  was  a 
pile  of  newspaper  clippings  in  which  his  name 
was  mentioned  with  praise  for  his  sustaining 
power  as  a  pillar  of  finance,  for  his  judicious  be- 
nevolence, for  his  support  of  wise  and  prudent 
reform  movements,  for  his  discretion  in  making 
permanent  public  gifts — "the  Weightman 
Charities, "  one  very  complaisant  editor  called 
them,  as  if  they  deserved  classification  as  a  dis- 
tinct species. 

He  turned  the  papers  over  listlessly.  There 
was  a  description  and  a  picture  of  the  "  Weight- 
man  Wing  of  the  Hospital  for  Cripples, "  of 
which  he  was  president;  and  an  article  on  the 
new  professor  in  the  "Weightman  Chair  of 
Political  Jurisprudence  "  in  Jackson  University, 
of  which  he  was  a  trustee;  and  an  illustrated 
account  of  the  opening  of  the  "Weightman 
Grammar-School"  at  Dulwich-on-the-Sound, 
where  he  had  his  legal  residence  for  purposes  of 
taxation. 

This  last  was  perhaps  the  most  carefully 

22 


THE    MANSION 

planned  of  all  the  Weightman  Charities.  He 
desired  to  win  the  confidence  and  support 
of  his  rural  neighbors.  It  had  pleased  him 
much  when  the  local  newspaper  had  spoken  of 
him  as  an  ideal  citizen  and  the  logical  candidate 
for  the  Governorship  of  the  State ;  but  upon  the 
whole  it  seemed  to  him  wiser  to  keep  out  of 
active  politics.  It  would  be  easier  and  better 
to  put  Harold  into  the  running,  to  have  him 
sent  to  the  Legislature  from  the  Dulwich  dis- 
trict, then  to  the  national  House,  then  to  the 
Senate.  Why  not  ?  The  Weightman  interests 
were  large  enough  to  need  a  direct  representa- 
tive and  guardian  at  Washington. 

But  to-night  all  these  plans  came  back  to  him 
with  dust  upon  them.  They  were  dry  and 
crumbling  like  forsaken  habitations.  The  son 
upon  whom  his  complacent  ambition  had  rested 
had  turned  his  back  upon  the  mansion  of  his 
father's  hopes.  The  break  might  not  be  final; 
and  in  any  event  there  would  be  much  to  live 
for;  the  fortunes  of  the  family  would  be  secure. 
But  the  zest  of  it  all  would  be  gone  if  John 
Weightman  had  to  give  up  the  assurance  of 
perpetuating  his  name  and  his  principles  in  his 
son.  It  was  a  bitter  disappointment,  and  he 
felt  that  he  had  not  deserved  it. 

23 


THE    MANSION 

He  rose  from  the  chair  and  paced  the  room 
with  leaden  feet.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
his  age  was  visibly  upon  him.  His  head  was 
heavy  and  hot,  and  the  thoughts  that  rolled  in 
it  were  confused  and  depressing.  Could  it  be 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  the  principles 
of  his  existence?  There  was  no  argument  in 
what  Harold  had  said — it  was  almost  childish — 
and  yet  it  had  shaken  the  elder  man  more 
deeply  than  he  cared  to  show.  It  held  a  silent 
attack  which  touched  him  more  than  open 
criticism. 

Suppose  the  end  of  his  life  were  nearer  than 
he  thought — the  end  must  come  some  time — 
what  if  it  were  now  ?  Had  he  not  founded  his 
house  upon  a  rock  ?  Had  he  not  kept  the  com- 
mandments ?  Was  he  not,  "  touching  the  law, 
blameless"?  And  beyond  this,  even  if  there 
were  some  faults  in  his  character — and  all  men 
are  sinners — yet  he  surely  believed  in  the  saving 
doctrines  of  religion — the  forgiveness  of  sins, 
the  resurrection  of  the  body,  the  life  everlast- 
ing. Yes,  that  was  the  true  source  of  comfort, 
after  all.  He  would  read  a  bit  in  the  Bible,  as 
he  did  every  night,  and  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

He  went  back  to  his  chair  at  the  library  table. 
A  strange  weight  of  weariness  rested  upon  him, 

24 


THE    MANSION 

but  he  opened  the  book  at  a  familiar  place,  and 
his  eyes  fell  upon  the  verse  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page. 

"Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon 
earth. " 

That  had  been  the  text  of  the  sermon  a  few 
weeks  before.  Sleepily,  heavily,  he  tried  to  fix 
his  mind  upon  it  and  recall  it.  What  was  it 
that  Doctor  Snodgrass  had  said?  Ah,  yes — 
that  it  was  a  mistake  to  pause  here  in  reading 
the  verse.  We  must  read  on  without  a  pause — 
Lay  not  up  treasures  upon  earth  where  moth  and 
rust  do  corrupt  and  where  thieves  break  through 
and  steal — that  was  the  true  doctrine.  We 
may  have  treasures  upon  earth  but  they  must 
not  be  put  into  unsafe  places,  but  into  safe 
places.  A  most  comforting  doctrine!  He  had 
always  followed  it.  Moths  and  rust  and  thieves 
had  done  no  harm  to  his  investments. 

John  Weigh tman's  drooping  eyes  turned  to 
the  next  verse,  at  the  top  of  the  second  column. 

"  But  lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven.1' 

Now  what  had  the  Doctor  said  about  that? 
How  was  it  to  be  understood — in  what  sense — 
— treasures — in  heaven  ? 

The  book  seemed  to  float  away  from  him. 
The  light  vanished.  He  wondered  dimly  if 
4  25 


THE    MANSION 

this  could  be  Death,  coming  so  suddenly,  so 
quietly,  so  irresistibly.  He  struggled  for  a 
moment  to  hold  himself  up,  and  then  sank 
slowly  forward  upon  the  table.  His  head  rested 
upon  his  folded  hands.  He  slipped  into  the 
unknown. 

How  long  afterward  conscious  life  returned 
to  him  he  did  not  know.  The  blank  might 
have  been  an  hour  or  a  century.  He  knew 
only  that  something  had  happened  in  the  inter- 
val. What  it  was  he  could  not  tell.  He  found 
great  difficulty  in  catching  the  thread  of  his 
identity  again.  He  felt  that  he  was  himself; 
but  the  trouble  was  to  make  his  connections,  to 
verify  and  place  himself,  to  know  who  and 
where  he  was. 

At  last  it  grew  clear.  John  Weightman  was 
sitting  on  a  stone,  not  far  from  a  road  in  a 
strange  land. 

The  road  was  not  a  formal  highway,  fenced 
and  graded.  It  was  more  like  a  great  travel- 
trace,  worn  by  thousands  of  feet  passing  across 
the  open  country  in  the  same  direction.  Down 
in  the  valley,  into  which  he  could  look,  the  road 
seemed  to  form  itself  gradually  out  of  many 
minor  paths;  little  footways  coming  across  the 

26 


THE    MANSION 

meadows,  winding  tracks  following  along  beside 
the  streams,  faintly  marked  trails  emerging 
from  the  woodlands.  But  on  the  hillside  the 
threads  were  more  firmly  woven  into  one  clear 
band  of  travel,  though  there  were  still  a  few 
dim  paths  joining  it  here  and  there,  as  if  persons 
had  been  climbing  up  the  hill  by  other  ways  and 
had  turned  at  last  to  seek  the  road. 

From  the  edge  of  the  hill,  where  John  Weight- 
man  sat,  he  could  see  the  travelers,  in  little 
groups  or  larger  companies,  gathering  from 
time  to  time  by  the  different  paths,  and  making 
the  ascent.  They  were  all  clothed  in  white, 
and  the  form  of  their  garments  was  strange  to 
him;  it  was  like  some  old  picture.  They 
passed  him,  group  after  group,  talking  quietly 
together  or  singing;  not  moving  in  haste,  but 
with  a  certain  air  of  eagerness  and  joy  as  if  they 
were  glad  to  be  on  their  way  to  an  appointed 
place.  They  did  not  stay  to  speak  to  him,  but 
they  looked  at  him  often  and  spoke  to  one  an- 
other as  they  looked ;  and  now  and  then  one  of 
them  would  smile  and  beckon  him  a  friendly 
greeting,  so  that  he  felt  they  would  like  him  to 
be  with  them. 

There  was  quite  an  interval  between  the 
groups;   and  he  followed  each  of  them  with 

27 


THE    MANSION 

his  eyes  after  it  had  passed,  blanching  the 
long  ribbon  of  the  road  for  a  little  transient 
space,  rising  and  receding  across  the  wide, 
billowy  upland,  among  the  rounded  hillocks  of 
aerial  green  and  gold  and  lilac,  until  it  came  to 
the  high  horizon,  and  stood  outlined  for  a 
moment,  a  tiny  cloud  of  whiteness  against 
the  tender  blue,  before  it  vanished  over  the 
hill. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there  watching  and 
wondering.  It  was  a  very  different  world  from 
that  in  which  his  mansion  on  the  Avenue  was 
built;  and  it  looked  strange  to  him,  but  most 
real — as  real  as  anything  he  had  ever  seen. 
Presently  he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  know  what 
country  it  was  and  where  the  people  were  going. 
He  had  a  faint  premonition  of  what  it  must  be, 
but  he  wished  to  be  sure.  So  he  rose  from  the 
stone  where  he  was  sitting,  and  came  down 
through  the  short  grass  and  the  lavender 
flowers,  toward  a  passing  group  of  people.  One 
of  them  turned  to  meet  him,  and  held  out  his 
hand.  It  was  an  old  man,  under  whose  white 
beard  and  brows  John  Weightman  thought  he 
saw  a  suggestion  of  the  face  of  the  village  doctor 
who  had  cared  for  him  years  ago,  when  he  was  a 
boy  in  the  country. 

28 


AMONG     THE     ROUNDED     HILLOCKS 
OF     AERIAL     GREEN      AND      GOLD 


OMA 
Ha3RJ 


"Welcome,"  said  the  old  man.  "Will  you 
come  with  us?" 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"To  the  heavenly  city,  to  see  our  mansions 
there. " 

"  And  who  are  these  with  you  ?" 

"Strangers  to  me,  until  a  little  while  ago;  I 
know  them  better  now.  But  you  I  have  known 
for  a  long  time,  John  Weightman.  Don't  you 
remember  your  old  doctor?" 

"Yes,"  he  cried — "yes;  your  voice  has  not 
changed  at  all.     I'm  glad  indeed  to  see  you, 

29 


THE     MANSION 

Doctor  McLean,  especially  now.  All  this  seems 
very  strange  to  me,  almost  oppressive.  I  won- 
der if — but  may  I  go  with  you,  do  you  sup- 
pose?" 

"Surely,"  answered  the  doctor,  with  his 
familiar  smile;  "  it  will  do  you  good.  And  you 
also  must  have  a  mansion  in  the  city  waiting  for 
you — a  fine  one,  too — are  you  not  looking  for- 
ward to  it?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  hesitating  a  mo- 
ment; "  yes — I  believe  it  must  be  so,  although  I 
had  not  expected  to  see  it  so  soon.  But  I  will 
go  with  you,  and  we  can  talk  by  the  way.  " 

The  two  men  quickly  caught  up  with  the 
other  people,  and  all  went  forward  together 
along  the  road.  The  doctor  had  little  to  tell  of 
his  experience,  for  it  had  been  a  plain,  hard  life, 
uneventfully  spent  for  others,  and  the  story  of 
the  village  was  very  simple.  John  Weight- 
man's  adventures  and  triumphs  would  have 
made  a  far  richer,  more  imposing  history,  full 
of  contacts  with  the  great  events  and  person- 
ages of  the  time.  But  somehow  or  other  he  did 
not  care  to  speak  much  about  it,  walking  on 
that  wide  heavenly  moorland,  under  that  tran- 
quil, sunless  arch  of  blue,  in  that  free  air  of  per- 
fect peace,  where  the  light  was  diffused  without 

30 


That  free  air  of  Perfect  Peace 


a  shadow,  as  if  the  spirit  of  life  in  all  things 
were  luminous. 

There  was  only  one  person  besides  the  doctor 
in  that  little  company  whom  John  Weightman 
had  known  before — an  old  bookkeeper  who  had 
spent  his  life  over  a  desk,  carefully  keeping 
accounts — a  rusty,  dull  little  man,  patient  and 
narrow,  whose  wife  had  been  in  the  insane 
asylum  for  twenty  years  and  whose  only  child 
was  a  crippled  daughter,  for  whose  comfort  and 
happiness  he  had  toiled  and  sacrificed  himself 
without  stint.  It  was  a  surprise  to  find  him 
here,  as  care-free  and  joyful  as  the  rest. 

The  lives  of  others  in  the  company  were  re- 
vealed in  brief  glimpses  as  they  talked  together 
— a  mother,  early  widowed,  who  had  kept  her 

5  31 


THE    MANSION 

little  flock  of  children  together  and  labored 
through  hard  and  heavy  years  to  bring  them  up 
in  purity  and  knowledge — a  Sister  of  Charity 
who  had  devoted  herself  to  the  nursing  of  poor 
folk  who  were  being  eaten  to  death  by  cancer — 
a  schoolmaster  whose  heart  and  life  had  been 
poured  into  his  quiet  work  of  training  boys  for 
a  clear  and  thoughtful  manhood — a  medical 
missionary  who  had  given  up  a  brilliant  career 
in  science  to  take  the  charge  of  a  hospital  in 
darkest  Africa — a  beautiful  woman  with  silver 
hair  who  had  resigned  her  dreams  of  love  and 
marriage  to  care  for  an  invalid  father,  and  after 
his  death  had  made  her  life  a  long,  steady 
search  for  ways  of  doing  kindnesses  to  others — 
a  poet  who  had  walked  among  the  crowded 
tenements  of  the  great  city,  bringing  cheer  and 
comfort  not  only  by  his  songs,  but  by  his  wise 
and  patient  works  of  practical  aid — a  paralyzed 
woman  who  had  lain  for  thirty  years  upon  her 
bed,  helpless  but  not  hopeless,  succeeding  by 
a  miracle  of  courage  in  her  single  aim,  never  to 
complain,  but  always  to  impart  a  bit  of  her  joy 
and  peace  to  every  one  who  came  near  her.  All 
these,  and  other  persons  like  them,  people  of 
little  consideration  in  the  world,  but  now  seem- 
ingly all  full  of  great  contentment  and  an  in- 

32 


THE    MANSION 

ward  gladness  that  made  their  steps  light,  were 
in  the  company  that  passed  along  the  road, 
talking  together  of  things  past  and  things  to 
come,  and  singing  now  and  then  with  clear 
voices  from  which  the  veil  of  age  and  sorrow 
was  lifted. 

John  Weightman  joined  in  some  of  the  songs 
— which  were  familiar  to  him  from  their  use  in 
the  church — at  first  with  a  touch  of  hesitation, 
and  then  more  confidently.  For  as  they  went 
on  his  sense  of  strangeness  and  fear  at  his  new 
experience  diminished,  and  his  thoughts  began 
to  take  on  their  habitual  assurance  and  com- 
placency. Were  not  these  people  going  to  the 
Celestial  City?  And  was  not  he  in  his  right 
place  among  them?  He  had  always  looked 
forward  to  this  journey.  If  they  were  sure, 
each  one,  of  finding  a  mansion  there,  could  not 
he  be  far  more  sure?  His  life  had  been  more 
fruitful  than  theirs.  He  had  been  a  leader,  a 
founder  of  new  enterprises,  a  pillar  of  church 
and  state,  a  prince  of  the  house  of  Israel.  Ten 
talents  had  been  given  him,  and  he  had  made 
them  twenty.  His  reward  would  be  propor- 
tionate. He  was  glad  that  his  companions 
were  going  to  find  fit  dwellings  prepared  for 
them ;  but  he  thought  also  with  a  certain  plea- 

33 


THE    MANSION 

sure  of  the  surprise  that  some  of  them  would 
feel  when  they  saw  his  appointed  mansion. 

So  they  came  to  the  summit  of  the  moorland 
and  looked  over  into  the  world  beyond.  It  was 
a  vast,  green  plain,  softly  rounded  like  a  shallow 
vase,  and  circled  with  hills  of  amethyst.  A 
broad,  shining  river  flowed  through  it,  and 
many  silver  threads  of  water  were  woven  across 
the  green;  and  there  were  borders  of  tall  trees 
on  the  banks  of  the  river,  and  orchards  full  of 
roses  abloom  along  the  little  streams,  and  in  the 
midst  of  all  stood  the  city,  white  and  wonderful 
and  radiant. 

When  the  travelers  saw  it  they  were  filled 
with  awe  and  joy.  They  passed  over  the  little 
streams  and  among  the  orchards  quickly  and 
silently,  as  if  they  feared  to  speak  lest  the  city 
should  vanish. 

The  wall  of  the  city  was  very  low,  a  child 
could  see  over  it,  for  it  was  made  only  of  pre- 
cious stones,  which  are  never  large.  The  gate 
was  not  like  a  gate  at  all,  for  it  was  not  barred 
with  iron  or  wood,  but  only  a  single  pearl, 
softly  gleaming,  marked  the  place  where  the 
wall  ended  and  the  entrance  lay  open. 

A  person  stood  there  whose  face  was  bright 
and  grave,  and  whose  robe  was  like  the  flower 


THE    MANSION 

of  the  lily,  not  a  woven  fabric,  but  a  living 
texture.  "Come  in,"  he  said  to  the  company 
of  travelers;  "you  are  at  your  journey's  end, 
and  your  mansions  are  ready  for  you." 

John  Weightman  hesitated,  for  he  was 
troubled  by  a  doubt.  Suppose  that  he  was 
not  really,  like  his  companions,  at  his  journey's 
end,  but  only  transported  for  a  little  while  out 
of  the  regular  course  of  his  life  into  this  mys- 
terious experience.  Suppose  that,  after  all, 
he  had  not  really  passed  through  the  door  of 
death,  like  these  others,  but  only  through  the 
door  of  dreams,  and  was  walking  in  a  vision,  a 
living  man  among  the  blessed  dead.  Would  it 
be  right  for  him  to  go  with  them  into  the  hea- 
venly city?  Would  it  not  be  a  deception,  a 
desecration,  a  deep  and  unforgivable  offense? 
The  strange,  confusing  question  had  no  reason 
in  it,  as  he  very  well  knew;  for  if  he  was  dream- 
ing, then  it  was  all  a  dream;  but  if  his  com- 
panions were  real,  then  he  also  was  with  them 
in  reality,  and  if  they  had  died  then  he  must 
have  died  too.  Yet  he  could  not  rid  his  mind 
of  the  sense  that  there  was  a  difference  between 
them  and  him,  and  it  made  him  afraid  to  go  on. 
But,  as  he  paused  and  turned,  the  Keeper  of  the 
Gate  looked  straight  and  deep  into  his  eyes,  and 

35 


THE    MANSION 

beckoned  to  him.     Then  he  knew  that  it  was 
not  only  right  but  necessary  that  he  should  enter. 

They  passed  from  street  to  street  among  fair 
and  spacious  dwellings,  set  in  amaranthine 
gardens,  and  adorned  with  an  infinitely  varied 
beauty  of  divine  simplicity.  The  mansions 
differed  in  size,  in  shape,  in  charm:  each  one 
seemed  to  have  its  own  personal  look  of  loveli- 
ness; yet  all  were  alike  in  fitness  to  their  place, 
in  harmony  with  one  another,  in  the  addition 
which  each  made  to  the  singular  and  tranquil 
splendor  of  the  city. 

As  the  little  company  came,  one  by  one,  to 
the  mansions  which  were  prepared  for  them, 
and  their  Guide  beckoned  to  the  happy  in- 
habitant to  enter  in  and  take  possession,  there 
was  a  soft  murmur  of  joy,  half  wonder  and  half 
recognition ;  as  if  the  new  and  immortal  dwell- 
ing were  crowned  with  the  beauty  of  surprise, 
lovelier  and  nobler  than  all  the  dreams  of  it 
had  been;  and  yet  also  as  if  it  were  touched 
with  the  beauty  of  the  familiar,  the  remem- 
bered, the  long-loved.  One  after  another  the 
travelers  were  led  to  their  own  mansions,  and 
went  in  gladly;  and  from  within,  through  the 
open  doorways,  came  sweet  voices  of  welcome, 
and  low  laughter,  and  song. 

36 


THE    MANSION 

At  last  there  was  no  one  left  with  the  Guide 
but  the  two  old  friends,  Doctor  McLean  and 
John  Weightman.  They  were  standing  in 
front  of  one  of  the  largest  and  fairest  of  the 
houses,  whose  garden  glowed  softly  with  ra- 
diant flowers.  The  Guide  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  doctor's  shoulder. 

" This  is  for  you,"  he  said.  " Go  in;  there  is 
no  more  pain  here,  no  more  death,  nor  sorrow, 
nor  tears;  for  your  old  enemies  are  all  con- 
quered. But  all  the  good  that  you  have  done 
for  others,  all  the  help  that  you  have  given,  all 
the  comfort  that  you  have  brought,  all  the 
strength  and  love  that  you  have  bestowed  upon 
the  suffering,  are  here;  for  we  have  built  them 
all  into  this  mansion  for  you." 

The  good  man's  face  was  lighted  with  a 
still  joy.  He  clasped  his  old  friend's  hand 
closely,  and  whispered:  "How  wonderful  it  is! 
Go  on,  you  will  come  to  your  mansion  next,  it 
is  not  far  away,  and  we  shall  see  each  other 
again  soon,  very  soon." 

So  he  went  through  the  garden,  and  into  the 
music  within.  The  Keeper  of  the  Gate  turned 
to  John  Weightman  with  level,  quiet,  searching 
eyes.     Then  he  asked,  gravely: 

"  Where  do  you  wish  me  to  lead  you  now  ?" 
37 


THE    MANSION 

"To  see  my  own  mansion,"  answered  the 
man,  with  half-concealed  excitement.  "  Is 
there  not  one  here  for  me?  You  may  not  let 
me  enter  it  yet,  perhaps,  for  I  must  confess  to 
you  that  I  am  only — ' ' 

"I  know,"  said  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate — "  I 
know  it  all.     You  are  John  Weigh tman." 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  more  firmly  than  he 
had  spoken  at  first,  for  it  gratified  him  that  his 
name  was  known.  "  Yes,  I  am  John  Weight- 
man,  Senior  Warden  of  St.  Petronius'  Church. 
I  wish  very  much  to  see  my  mansion  here,  if 
only  for  a  moment.  I  believe  that  you  have 
one  for  me.     Will  you  take  me  to  it  ?" 

The  Keeper  of  the  Gate  drew  a  little  book 
from  the  breast  of  his  robe  and  turned  over  the 
pages. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  with  a  curious  look  at 
the  man,  "  your  name  is  here;  and  you  shall  see 
your  mansion,  if  you  will  follow  me." 

It  seemed  as  if  they  must  have  walked  miles 
and  miles,  through  the  vast  city,  passing  street 
after  street  of  houses  larger  and  smaller,  of 
gardens  richer  and  poorer,  but  all  full  of  beauty 
and  delight.  They  came  into  a  kind  of  suburb, 
where  there  were  many  small  cottages,  with 
plots  of  flowers,   very  lowly  but  bright   and 

38 


THE    MANSION 

fragrant.  Finally  they  reached  an  open  field, 
bare  and  lonely-looking.  There  were  two  or 
three  little  bushes  in  it,  without  flowers,  and 
the  grass  was  sparse  and  thin.  In  the  center 
of  the  field  was  a  tiny  hut,  hardly  big  enough 
for  a  shepherd's  shelter.  It  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  built  of  discarded  things,  scraps  and  frag- 
ments of  other  buildings,  put  together  with 
care  and  pains,  by  some  one  who  had  tried  to 
make  the  most  of  cast-off  material.  There  was 
something  pitiful  and  shamefaced  about  the 
hut.  It  shrank  and  drooped  and  faded  in  its 
barren  field,  and  seemed  to  cling  only  by  suffer- 
ance to  the  edge  of  the  splendid  city. 

"This,"  said  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate,  stand- 
ing still,  and  speaking  with  a  low,  distinct  voice 
— "this  is  your  mansion,  John  Weightman." 

An  almost  intolerable  shock  of  grieved  won- 
der and  indignation  choked  the  man  for  a 
moment  so  that  he  could  not  say  a  word.  Then 
he  turned  his  face  away  from  the  poor  little  hut 
and  began  to  remonstrate  eagerly  with  his  com- 
panion. 

"Surely,  sir,"  he  stammered,  "you  must  be 
in  error  about  this.     There  is  something  wrong 
— some  other  John  Weightman — a  confusion  of 
names — the  book  must  be  mistaken." 
6  39 


THE    MANSION 

"  There  is  no  mistake,"  said  the  Keeper  of  the 
Gate,  very  calmly;  "here  is  your  name,  the 
record  of  your  title  and  your  possessions  in  this 
place. ' ' 

"But  how  could  such  a  house  be  prepared 
for  me,  "  cried  the  man,  with  a  resentful  tremor 
in  his  voice,  "  for  me,  after  my  long  and  faithful 
service  ?  Is  this  a  suitable  mansion  for  one  so 
well  known  and  devoted?  Why  is  it  so  piti- 
fully small  and  mean?  Why  have  you  not 
built  it  large  and  fair,  like  the  others  ?" 

"  That  is  all  the  material  you  sent  us." 

"What!" 

"  We  have  used  all  the  material  that  you  sent 
us,"  repeated  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate. 

"  Now  I  know  that  you  are  mistaken,"  cried 
the  man,  with  growing  earnestness,  "  for  all  my 
life  long  I  have  been  doing  things  that  must 
have  supplied  you  with  material.  Have  you 
not  heard  that  I  have  built  a  school-house ;  the 
wing  of  a  hospital;  two  —  yes,  three  —  small 
churches,  and  the  greater  part  of  a  large  one, 
the  spire  of  St.  Petro — " 

The  Keeper  of  the  Gate  lifted  his  hand. 

"  Wait,"  he  said;  "we  know  all  these  things. 
They  were  not  ill  done.  But  they  were  all 
marked  and  used  as  foundation  for  the  name 

40 


THE    MANSION 

and  mansion  of  John  Weightman  in  the  world. 
Did  you  not  plan  them  for  that?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  man,  confused  and 
taken  aback,  "  I  confess  that  I  thought  often  of 
them  in  that  way.  Perhaps  my  heart  was  set 
upon  that  too  much.  But  there  are  other  things 
— my  endowment  for  the  college — my  steady 
and  liberal  contributions  to  all  the  established 
charities — my  support  of  every  respectable — " 

"Wait,"  said  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate  again. 
"  Were  not  all  these  carefully  recorded  on  earth 
where  they  would  add  to  your  credit?  They 
were  not  foolishly  done.  Verily,  you  have  had 
your  reward  for  them.  Would  you  be  paid 
twice?" 

"No,"  cried  the  man,  with  deepening  dis- 
may, "  I  dare  not  claim  that.  I  acknowledge 
that  I  considered  my  own  interest  too  much. 
But  surely  not  altogether.  You  have  said  that 
these  things  were  not  foolishly  done.  They 
accomplished  some  good  in  the  world.  Does 
not  that  count  for  something?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate,  "  it 
counts  in  the  world — where  you  counted  it. 
But  it  does  not  belong  to  you  here.  We  have 
saved  and  used  everything  that  you  sent  us. 
This  is  the  mansion  prepared  for  you." 

41 


THE    MANSION 

As  he  spoke,  his  look  grew  deeper  and  more 
searching,  like  a  flame  of  fire.  John  Weight- 
man  could  not  endure  it.  It  seemed  to  strip 
him  naked  and  wither  him.  He  sank  to  the 
ground  under  a  crushing  weight  of  shame, 
covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands  and  cower- 
ing face  downward  upon  the  stones.  Dimly 
through  the  trouble  of  his  mind  he  felt  their 
hardness  and  coldness. 

"Tell  me,  then,"  he  cried,  brokenly,  "since 
my  life  has  been  so  little  worth,  how  came  I 
here  at  all?" 

"Through  the  mercy  of  the  King" — the  an- 
swer was  like  the  soft  tolling  of  a  bell. 

"And  how  have  I  earned  it?"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"It  is  never  earned;  it  is  only  given,"  came 
the  clear,  low  reply. 

"But  how  have  I  failed  so  wretchedly,"  he 
asked,  "in  all  the  purpose  of  my  life?  What 
could  I  have  done  better?  What  is  it  that 
counts  here?" 

"Only  that  which  is  truly  given,"  answered 
the  bell-like  voice.  "  Only  that  good  which  is 
done  for  the  love  of  doing  it.  Only  those  plans 
in  which  the  welfare  of  others  is  the  master 
thought.     Only  those  labors  in  which  the  sacri- 

42 


THE    MANSION 

fice  is  greater  than  the  reward.  Only  those 
gifts  in  which  the  giver  forgets  himself." 

The  man  lay  silent.  A  great  weakness,  an 
unspeakable  despondency  and  humiliation  were 
upon  him.  But  the  face  of  the  Keeper  of 
the  Gate  was  infinitely  tender  as  he  bent  over 
him. 

"  Think  again,  John  Weightman.  Has  there 
been  nothing  like  that  in  your  life  ?" 

"Nothing,"  he  sighed.  "If  there  ever  were 
such  things  it  must  have  been  long  ago — they 
were  all  crowded  out — I  have  forgotten  them." 

There  was  an  ineffable  smile  on  the  face  of 
the  Keeper  of  the  Gate,  and  his  hand  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  over  the  bowed  head  as  he 
spoke  gently: 

"These  are  the  things  that  the  King  never 
forgets;  and  because  there  were  a  few  of  them 
in  your  life,  you  have  a  little  place  here." 

The  sense  of  coldness  and  hardness  under 
John  Weightman's  hands  grew  sharper  and 
more  distinct.  The  feeling  of  bodily  weariness 
and  lassitude  weighed  upon  him,  but  there  was 
a  calm,  almost  a  lightness,  in  his  heart  as  he 
listened  to  the  fading  vibrations  of  the  silvery 
bell-tones.     The  chimney  clock  on  the  mantel 

43 


THE    MANSION 

had  just  ended  the  last  stroke  of  seven  as  he 
lifted  his  head  from  the  table.  Thin,  pale 
strips  of  the  city  morning  were  falling  into  the 
room  through  the  narrow  partings  of  the  heavy 
curtains. 

What  was  it  that  had  happened  to  him  ? 
Had  he  been  ill?  Had  he  died  and  come  to 
life  again?  Or  had  he  only  slept,  and  had 
his  soul  gone  visiting  in  dreams  ?  He  sat  for 
some  time,  motionless,  not  lost,  but  finding 
himself  in  thought.  Then  he  took  a  narrow 
book  from  the  table  drawer,  wrote  a  check, 
and  tore  it  out. 

He  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  knocked  very 
softly  at  his  son's  door,  and,  hearing  no  answer, 
entered  without  noise.  Harold  was  asleep,  his 
bare  arm  thrown  above  his  head,  and  his  eager 
face  relaxed  in  peace.  His  father  looked  a,t 
him  a  moment  with  strangely  shining  eyes,  and 
then  tiptoed  quietly  to  the  writing-desk,  found 
a  pencil  and  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  wrote  rapidly : 

"My  dear  boy,  here  is  what  you  asked  me 
for;  do  what  you  like  with  it,  and  ask  for  more 
if  you  need  it.  If  you  are  still  thinking  of  that 
work  with  Grenfell,  we'll  talk  it  over  to-day 
after  church.  I  want  to  know  your  heart 
better ;  and  if  I  have  made  mistakes — ' ' 

44 


"  God  give  us  a  good  Christmas  together " 


A  slight  noise  made  him  turn  his  head.  Har- 
old was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  wide-open  eyes. 
"  Father!"  he  cried,  "  is  that  you  ?" 
"Yes,  my  son,"  answered  John  Weightman; 
"I've  come  back — I  mean  I've  come  up — no, 
I  mean  come  in — well,  here  I  am,  and  God  give 
us  a  good  Christmas  together." 


